The Rusted Sword by R. D. Hero Page B

imperious tone would have had Moshe fuming—and then whimpering as he and Raleigh played their games.
    Now …
    Raleigh watched his husband with hooded eyes. Moshe was not as sleek and trim as when they first met, but he still had the aura of a cornered viper ready to strike. The lines on his face and the bit of flesh he had gained he carried well; they spoke of experience that tempered his volatile moods and made him an even more worthy opponent outside of the tournament ring.
    And every day he went down to the courtyard to practice his sword skills. Raleigh was quite sure Moshe had never missed a session. For the first few years after he had come to live at Chaylain, he and Raleigh would battle it out for hours—not just with swords, but also in hunts and races and any other opportunity to butt heads, all so they could play their intricate game.
    If Raleigh ever lost a bout, he had to sleep in a cold bed that night.
    "Peter," Raleigh said, and he grimaced at the croak in his voice.
    "Yes, sir?"
    "Did he write that I would be participating in the games?"
    A beat passed, and then Peter said, "No, sir."
    "Will he be participating?"
    "Yes, sir."
    Raleigh settled back in his chair, resting his chin on his palm. Moshe had moved on to the longsword, his muscles flexing to hold the weight. Unable to suppress a smile, Raleigh recalled how he used to tease Moshe for fighting with a sword almost as tall as himself. Well—it was more than teasing; it had been mocking, and Moshe would snarl and stomp and take a swing at Raleigh, who would laugh and grab Moshe's arm in a firm grip, all the while falling in love.
    "Peter," Raleigh said, and this time his voice was clear. "Please set aside Moshe's note, and write a message from myself stating that we both will be participating in the games."
    "Yes, sir."
    "That's all, Peter."
    He heard Peter turn and walk away. Without Peter's eyes on him, Raleigh felt more settled as he went back to watching Moshe. But all too soon, the realization of what he had just done hit him fully, and he groaned, dropping his face into his palm. When was the last time he had lifted a sword? And were there new games that Raleigh didn't even know about?
    He was going to make a fool of himself, while Moshe's hard-earned abilities would shine and everyone would remember why they had feared him.
    They would see Raleigh, with his limp and now graceless presence, and they would wonder how such a pathetic man had managed to shackle the dangerous Moshe.
     
    *~*~*
     
    It was not as if Raleigh had to wait for Moshe to fall asleep. They no longer shared a bed.
    He could quite leisurely rise in the early hours of the morning and dress in his leathers. He did not bother to start a fire, and his chambers were dead still with chilly air. Grabbing a handful of nuts from the bowl on his table, Raleigh popped them into his mouth as he strode out of his room.
    Chaylain was not that large, which was fortunate in the winter months as it would have been harder to keep a larger castle warm. There was a small wing for the masters, a wing for the servants, and a guest wing—beyond that, just the kitchen, main hall, and storerooms. Raleigh had the whole premise, every nook and cranny, mapped out since he was a child, and he loved every crumbling stone deeply.
    Raleigh would always remember the look on Moshe's face upon seeing Chaylain for the first time when they had finally arrived after days and days of travel from Marvle-Dein. It was abject disappointment.
    Pushing that memory away, Raleigh quickly made his way to the front entry of the main building, entering the courtyard. Off to the left was the modest stable, and to the right was the rack for training weapons, which was where Raleigh was headed. He stood in front of it, a frown on his face, and stared at each sword, realizing that every single one of them was Moshe's, and that Raleigh's swords were nowhere to be found.
    Biting his lip, he looked over his shoulder towards the